Entrapment
by Radioheaded
Summary: Meet Elaine. She's an undercover cop tracking down a murderer and finds...someone else. Meet Eric Northman, before vampires 'came out.' What happens when she discovers his secret? Set in New York, where no one sleeps at night.
1. Chapter 1

This was it. I had my way in and I was going to take it. It didn't matter that the only real way I could stop Mr. Aaron Gray's murderous blood lust was as a romantic interest; I was _here,_ about to get a truly bad guy, and I was doing it on my own. It wasn't my first undercover assignment, but it was my first, and probably most important, solo career move.

I did resent that I was probably being used for my looks rather than my proven work-ethic and skill, but what did it matter? I would nail this guy, period. I'd met him the first time in a coffee shop, where I posed as a writer absorbed by my latest novel. I bumped into him on my way for a second coffee; he sat down, and between bites of a coffee-cake muffin, we 'bonded.'

He was an attractive man, but I could barely stand to be in his presence. But, I was a good actress. Always had been. So when he looked into my blue eyes with his own, a lighter shade so they looked almost grey, ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and asked me to dinner, I stretched my lips into a coy smile and said yes.

He smiled like a kid on Christmas day; I wanted to deck him then and there. But that might have blown my cover. And I wanted him. Wanted to get him off the streets, where he'd been raping and murdering female acquaintances. It was a game to him; dine, romance, then torture, kill. But he left no physical evidence, and all we had was a suspect, which is where I came in. String him along until he attacks; that was my order. So, for however long it took him to make a move, I would be surrounded by hidden bodyguards 24/7.

The assignment was something out of a thriller movie.

So, when he asked for my phone number, I smiled like the cat who ate the canary. I had him; he was walking into a trap and I was ready to slam the door behind him. I wrote down my fake name and number, and camped out by the phone for three days, waiting for the call. When it came, my heart hammered in my chest so hard it felt like I was at a concert and felt the reverb of the bass inside of me.

I was witty, flirty. And he was welcoming. We arranged to meet for dinner, and then hung up.

I only had one problem while getting ready: where would I hide my gun?

***

So here I am, mic'd and dangerous, waiting for my 'date' to arrive at the place we agreed upon. What Gray doesn't know is that our young waiter is an officer, as are several others planted about the bustling restaurant.

My mind, though it should be occupied with the task at hand, isn't. Instead, my thoughts, and eyes, keep flitting toward a man a few tables away from me. He's very blonde, and very _big_; not in weight, but in height. I stare at his hands, which must be at least twice the size of my own.

His eyes are blue, a light shade, and his skin is pale.

He's beautiful.

I try not to stare, and am successful because Gray arrives just then. I welcome him with a kiss on the cheek, though inside bile builds in my stomach, hot and angry.

"You look beautiful," Gray says, his eyes moving over my body. I'm wearing a black dress, floor length, and my hair is loose and wavy.

"Thanks," I return the compliment by raking my eyes over his body; though I feel my temperature begin rise and my heart speeds up with anger.

"Did you find the place ok?" he asks as we sit and are handed the menus by John, my partner. I hold back a chuckle when I see him in his dapper waiter's uniform. He gives me a quick glare after checking to make sure Gray isn't watching.

"So," Gray begins, his eyes on my face, surprisingly. "What's this novel you're working on?"

"Well," I look down at my lap and tell him the truth. I'd been working on a book since I'd graduated college, but had never been brave enough to option it out.

"It's about a younger girl, about twenty-one, who's just come back from seeing the world after studying abroad for a year. When she gets home, she doesn't see it as that anymore because she's not who she used to be."

"Depressing," Gray says, his eyes serious.

"Life's like that," I mumble. But I paste a smile to my lips and look into his eyes. "I don't know, I've always been sort of a melancholy writer."

"Well, I guess it's more truthful. Life is hard. People steal, cheat and lie to save their own skin. It's a depressing world."

_Yeah, _I thought._ You would know all about that, wouldn't you?_

"You get me," Is what I actually said, and bit my lips shyly.

Gray licks his lips, a reflexive tic that tells me he's interested. Good. I'm getting to him. His attraction to this façade only excites me. I'm the hunter, he's the prey, and he's too intoxicated to know he's being backed into a corner, slowly.

I look back down at my menu, but my gaze is caught by that blonde man; he's staring at me, and when I meet his gaze, he raises an eyebrow. His expression wasn't flirtatious; it was more like the look you'd see a parent give a child who had their hand caught in the cookie jar.

His guest, a pale brunette man, doesn't notice his companion's distraction. I stare into the blonde man's eyes, hard, and tilt my head in what can only be called a 'yeah?' expression. I bring my attention back to my task at hand. We order wine, then dinner, and chat idly.

"Where did you go to college, Elaine?" Gray asks.

"Yale," I say. And it's true, for Elaine Vetter. She went to Yale, or at least, Yale records show she did. I actually went to Northwestern.

"Wow," he's impressed. "I went to The University of Indiana."

"It's a good school," I say, bringing my hand up to my cheek to brush back a stray lock of hair. I lick my lips subtly. "You're a ways from home, though."

"Yeah, came out here to make it big in business."

"And?"

"I found my true calling—a little pizza place I bought a couple years back." .

"You'll have to show it to me sometime," I nod at my partner, who has returned with the wine. "I love pizza." I take a sip of the red liquid and it slides down my throat, rich and heady.

"Sure," Gray says, without a hint of distress. He takes a sip of his wine.

The date goes well, easily, and I relax into the game like a cat playing with a mouse. I'm attentive, smiling and laughing at the dull first-date conversation. Our food comes and I take small bites, slide the fork between my lips and pull it free slowly, leisurely. Gray's gaze strays to my mouth.

I can't help but notice, though, that the blonde man's eyes are reserved for me, and me alone. If I'm the cat to Gray's mouse, this man is a wolf.

"Excuse me for a sec?" I ask, and Gray stands when I leave to use the restroom. I have to admit, the bastard has manners.

"I'll be waiting," he purrs. When I walk away, I feel eyes on my back, but I can't be sure of whose. When I reached the bathroom, my partner was there, waiting for me.

"He buying it?" He asks, smoothing back his short, black hair. His skinniness in the white dress shirt and black suit pants belie the muscular frame I'd grown to know from our time—and workouts—together.

"Eating it up," I laughed. "So to speak."

"Good. Waiting on the sonnovabitch is just about killing me, though."

"Aw," I lean in to pinch his cheek, Grandma style, "But you look so cute in your penguin suit."

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Now get back out there and seal the deal." I flush; I was already touchy about the situation; that my partner had basically called me a prostitute didn't help matters.

He realizes the error and remorse flickeres across his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he says, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace.

"It's fine," I lie smoothly. "Now, I've got a date I need to get back to." Without a backward glance, I leave the bathroom.

"Hey," Gray says as I sit. "I ordered desert for us, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." The table has been cleared, and the check sits on the corner by Gray. "What are we having?"

"That's for you to fine out," Gray's fingers reach for mine across the table; I allow his touch, a soft stroke across my palm, tracing the life line.

"Well," I'm distracted at his touch, have to fight to keep my facial expression pleased. "Can I at least help you with the check?"

"Maybe next time," he says as he bites the bottom of his lip.

John comes back with the dessert—strawberries and cream. Gray picks a piece of fruit up and drenches it in the thick homemade cream. He leans toward me, questioning with his eyes, and I let him feed me dessert. I let my lips close over the tip of his thumb before I slowly let go. I have to remind myself not to bite—or vomit.

"Would you be up for seeing a movie?"

"If you let me pick it," I reply, earning a chuckle.

"Let me just take care of this," Gray says, standing. "Mind if we take my car? I can drop you back off to get yours after."

"Sure," Inside, I'm giddy. He's closing in. He tells me to get my jacket and wait in the foyer of the restaurant. He'll pull up in front to collect me. What I don't notice is the blonde man leaving the restaurant….through the back door.

After ten minutes, I leave the building to check outside; Gray should have been here with his car by now. The front entrance of the restaurant is quiet, unnaturally so. My skin feels like it wants to crawl away from my body. Something's wrong. It's only when I stop, try to clear my head that I notice an odd sound….a faint, sucking noise coming from the alleyway behind me. I creep toward the noise, my hand near my thigh, ready to reach for my weapon.

Which proved useless, I think, looking back on the situation. Because that man, that gorgeous, blonde man, who, standing up, was a good deal over six feet tall, had Gray pressed against the brick building of the restaurant. His head is buried in Gray's neck, hence the sucking.

If I had had time to think anything before I reached for my gun and shot the blonde man, I'm sure it would have been _What the fuck? _As it was, I was too busy reacting instinctively, and put four bullets into Gray's attacker.

He looks up at me, his mouth smeared with blood, blue eyes wild and boring into my own, before opening his mouth and snarling at me. _Snarling._ But those drawn-back lips reveal something that takes my breath away: two elongated teeth. Tapered, deadly and somehow beautiful, this man, this _being_ stares at me like I'm a glass of water and he'd just been through a marathon. But he makes no move.

"You never saw this," he says, his words silky-smooth. "You're going to go get your car and forget you were going to see a movie with him."

"What are you trying to pull?" I keep my gun pointed at him, wondering why he hasn't hit the floor yet. I shot him four times; he should be bleeding out.

"Interesting," He says, his teeth somehow normal again. His eyes gleam. "Very interesting."

"What's interesting, asshole, is what jail's going to be like for a guy as pretty as yourself," I spit, cracking into a smile. "You fucked an entire investigation up, killed the man we were about to get. You're screwed."

I'm confident, too confident, but it's a response to the impossibility I've just seen. I must have been hallucinating. That's all.

The man laughs, looks down at Gray's body. "I'm not going anywhere," he says. "And, in fact, you're coming with me."

"Like hell I—" I'm mid sentence when blackness douses my vision. I didn't see him attack me; I must have been struck from behind.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up, unsure of why I was asleep in the first place. I'd been at the restaurant last, I think.

Wait.

The images come back in a torrent; me, leaving the building, seeing the blonde man crushing Gray against the alley wall, his head buried in my suspect's neck, the surprise of the blonde man…..and then his teeth. My nerves catch alight as I feel adrenaline pour into my system. My breathing picks up, kicks my heart into gear, but I stay where I am and try not to move a muscle. I'm on my back, but not on the floor. Through my eyelids I sense natural light, so I open them a sliver to try to get a better grasp of my surroundings.

I'm on a bed, and barely a few feet from me is the back of the man with blonde hair. My mind spews expletives in some pretty interesting combinations before I can mentally shake myself and focus. But I don't have time to put anything together before the man speaks.

"Sit up," his low voice, barely louder than a whisper, commands. I ignore it, shut my eyes and basically play dead.

"I won't say it again," he sighs. "I can smell the adrenaline in your blood. Pretty sure that doesn't happen to the unconscious."

I sit up, push my feet against the bed to brace my back against the headboard, and grope at my thigh for the gun I strapped there before leaving. The gun that had been removed.

"While your bullets won't hurt me," he says, "they do steal precious energy. And they're annoying." He turns to me, and I get the full focus of his stare, something akin to what a bug would experience if God stared at it. And if there was a god, this one was not happy.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, my voice coming out a lot stronger than it should. My arms and are rubber, and I almost feel as if I'm outside myself, watching this peculiar exchange.

"Your memory," he places a cool hand on my leg and pulls me—_with one hand_—across the bed so I sit next to him. His entire being radiates power and I can barely look at him. Meanwhile, my mind is shrieking on high alert; _Predatorpredatorpredator,_ it says. _Find an exit, scratch, claw, get out get out! _

Those unnaturally strong hands encircle my face, bury themselves in my hair; my arms come up and I press against him, try to move away, but I can't.

"I know you're just above basic instincts at the moment," he says, like he's discussing a boring algebra equation. "And your body is telling you to flee or fight. Look into my eyes. Focus."

I listen, stare into his eyes, those pale depths, a sea blue without a border so the color bleeds into the white, and take a breath.

"You have nowhere to go," he continues. "This place is entirely secure. And if you try to fight me, you will not win. And I don't want to kill you because you made an accidental discovery."

I collect myself, take a breath and ask him what he means.

"You remember. Or you will. I couldn't take it from you, anyway."

"Take it…." That silky voice. Predator, predator predator. The look in his eyes when I caught him drinking the blood of my 'date.'

"Oh," I say, though it comes out a sigh, a hiss of air between my lips.

"Yes." It's a hiss of his own, and the hands on my cheeks slide down slowly before being removed completely.

"You're a vampire, then." The words tumble from my mouth before I allow them, but there they are. He nods once. My hand clamps over my mouth and I back off of the bed, looking for a corner to keep my back to.

"Let me go," I say, trying to keep my voice level, non-hysteric.

"I can't," he says, then moves so fast that I don't see him until he's immediately in front of me, his arms pressed on either side of me against the wall. I'm caged.

"I'm a cop." I look into his eyes, try to show him the truth. "There will be people looking for me everywhere. I was wired. They'll know who you are."

"When you say wired, you mean this?" He pulls, in pieces, what was the communication device taped to my chest. My mouth opens and closes like a fish; I gasp for air, but it seems to be in short supply.

_No,_ I tell myself. I will not give in to panic. Asses the situation. Though I'm captive, my kidnapper seems like he's telling the truth about his intentions not to kill me. I glance around the room. No windows, a single door. Ornate, old furniture. Another room attached, probably a bathroom. No visible weapons.

_Shit._ I'm stuck.

"Are you going to try to hurt me?"

He smiles. "Believe me, there would be no _try._ But no, I take no pleasure in the harming of innocents. It was my carelessness that led you here." His face draws back from mine; I decide to play along, to try and form some sort of trust. So I follow him back to the bed and sit again, though not as close as he pulled me the first time.

"And when do you plan on letting me leave?"

"You said it yourself: you're a cop. Your colleagues will want to know where you've been, and I doubt you're creative enough to make up a story that fools other cops."

"So, what?" I bite back tears, dig my teeth so hard into my tongue that my mouth fills with the coppery tang of blood. I swallow it down, but it trickles steadily. "You're not going to let me go? What will I do here, waste? I'd rather you kill—" He cut me off, drew closer to my mouth. His lips opened and met mine, and I felt the presence of his tongue trying to meet mine. I pulled backwards, away from his grasp.

"What?" I hissed. "You want this?" I spat on the floor, something I'd never done before, and bloody saliva made a pool that stood out against the pale wood.

He stood, an unreadable look in his eyes, and went into the attached room. I was right, it was a bathroom, because he came back out carrying a towel, which he threw on the floor with as much spite as I had when I spat on it.

"You're stubborn," he says. "Well, so am I." He turns his back to me, goes to the door. "I have a human maid who has been alerted of your presence. She'll bring you food. Don't ask her for help; she's loyal to me."

He leaves the light switch on; I press my ear against the door and listen to what sounds like deadbolts clicking into place before a sharp rap on the other side of the door, just about where my ear is, knocks me ever-so-gracefully onto my ass. I look around the room, take stock, see if anything will help me escape.

It's oddly beautiful, my cell; all the furniture is old and grand, loops and spirals carved into dark wood. The bed is enormous, the canopy kind with shades that can be drawn. They're black, and thick, perfect for blocking out light. I shudder at the thought and walk into the bathroom, which, like the bedroom, is ornate and old-fashioned. A monstrous claw-foot tub stands in the corner, surrounded by a white shower curtain. The mirror is floor-length and the sink is deep, like a wash-basin from the Victorian era. Again, the room has no windows. No way out.

I return to the bedroom, and after making sure the drapes on the bed are tied back, I move back the blankets, a deep burgundy with gold detailing, and climb in. I've no choice other than to sleep in my dress, though I remove the leg holster for the gun I _had._ It sickens me to know my captor has seen me almost naked; I grit my teeth and try to breathe slowly, try to lull myself to sleep. When my thoughts start to move independently and I can feel the heaviness of sleep paralysis moving through my body, a thought, like lightning, hits me so hard I bolt upright, and out of the bed.

_My purse._ It was in my hand when I left the restaurant, and it had not only a decoy cell, the one I had used for Gray, but my real phone, one that had tracking capabilities. I almost cackle in delight when I see the oversized silver clutch on the desk by the bed; I unzip it and fish for the zipper to the concealed pocket in the bottom. My hand hits it, and when the compartment is opened, there's nothing. My wallet is gone too, as is the other phone. All that remains is the cash I'd brought with me.

The scream that comes from me is animalistic, one of frustration and anger. My chest reverberates with the sound and I throw my purse at that stupid, beautiful bureau, leaving a sizeable nick from the metal clasp.

I go back to bed, tears of anger fighting to overpower my will _not_ to cry, not to bend to my captor's will; it would be the first step, the first chink in my armor. _Don't give in to it;_ I think, and let the moisture fall away from my eyes onto the pillow, where they'll be absorbed and forgotten; no more will fall.

I ease, slowly, into restless sleep about people melting into the darkness, taking me along as they go.

***

I wake to the noise of my door opening. A woman, mid-fifties with short, salt-and-pepper hair comes in. I sit up quickly, try to clear the sleep from my eyes and mind, push my hair back and look at her closer.

"Morning," she says, her tone friendly, but somehow stiff.

"You're not going to help me," I assess, and she gives me a nod. She adjusts he glasses, black, square frames, and sets a tray down on the nightstand. A few pieces of fruit, some toast and coffee are arranged neatly on the tray.

"But you're human," I say. "Why are you working for this vampire?" I must come off as ridiculous, snarled hair and wild raccoon eyes, all the while trying to appeal to her sense of logic.

"Because he's taken care of me over the years." It's all she gives to me; she walks through the room, carrying a box I hadn't noticed. When she returns, I try a different tactic.

"I'm a police officer," my stern voice comes out. "You're going to be in a lot of trouble when they find out you're an accessory to a kidnapping. The NYPD will find me, eventually."

"What makes you so sure we're in New York?" She smiles, knowing she's beaten me. "Believe me, honey, however effective your police department is, they're no match to Eric." I open my mouth, try to reason with her, but she just turns her back and leaves me.

"Great," I mutter, eyeing the breakfast before deciding I wasn't going to eat anything. A hunger strike is stupid, I know, but it's a rebellion of sorts, and I wasn't above being a pain in the ass.

_What makes you so sure we're in New York? _

_  
_The woman's words resonate in me; I get up, press my ear to the opposite wall and listen with my entire being for clues that could tell me my location. I don't hear the endless hum of traffic that's become a background noise to me since I moved to New York so many years ago; the silence I hear instead is punctuated only by the songs of birds whose names I don't know. It had to be morning then, right? I'm not sure; I think birds chirp all day, but I can't be sure. As soon as I realize I have no way of knowing what time it is, the hours line up in front of me, like the depth of an ocean: dark, unknowable, infinite. I'm surrounded by time enough to drown in it.

The hours pass, slowly. I check the bathroom; the box in there contains essentials for the shower and various other hygienic necessities. I put deodorant on and brush my teeth, then go back and lay in bed, meditate, try to think of the problem in front of me from every angle, trying to see where my captor—_Eric,_ apparently—might have missed a step. But it's a game I can't win.

The door opens again; the woman comes in, slightly flushed, with the smell of wet leaves and cool air clinging to her. She clucks at the wasted food and replaces the tray. Steak, this time, with a salad.

"I'm a vegetarian," I say, coating the words in acid.

"Doesn't matter, really, does it?" The woman asks, nodding at the uneaten food.

I shrug. "What time is it?"

"2:30." She looks sympathetic for a moment. "There aren't any books or anything in here. Do you want me to get you anything? Eric's going to get clothes for you tomorrow, but I can pick up some books or something."

"Why are you being so nice?" I ask, and she frowns.

"It's not your fault you're here," she says, taking a step forward, but thinking better of it after a moment.

"Then help me get out," I whisper, and those stupid tears fill my eyes again.

"I'm sorry. I really am. But I can't." She looks like she means it, but what is her sympathy to me? She's obviously not going to budge.

"Hemingway," I reply. "Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Kerouac. They're my favorites."

"Those men had a soft spot for alcohol," she states, a smile pulling at the right corner of her mouth.

"Yeah," I murmur. "Imagine their books without it."

"Sun's down in two hours," she says, looking back at me regretfully. "He'll be stopping in."

"Fantastic. Can't wait." She clucks softly, then leaves. But her words make me think; if it's two-thirty now, and the sun sets at four-thirty, I'm still on the east coast. Maybe farther north, but still within four hours of New York; the leaves, and that unmistakable smell of fall weather means I'm in the country, or a suburb somewhere, but within access to a city.

I throw the tray of food into the garbage. Time passes, I'm not sure how much, but at some point I get up to take a shower. The claw-foot tub is a little odd, but the hot spray feels good on my way past stiff muscles; it slides down my skin like an embrace. I sit to shave, then pull my legs to my chest and breathe in the hot steam, so thick it's like water in my throat. My partner, my job, my apartment, my _life_, flicker through my mind and I have to breathe in, deeply, to keep from panicking. This man, this _monster,_ has taken everything from me.

I need to get out from the heat, but when I stand, spots like the snow on a TV with bad reception cover my vision and I sway into the wall.

"Whoa," I whisper, leaning my cheek on the cool tile while my vision sorts itself out. After a moment, I shut the water off and step out of the tub, dry myself, and put my dress back on. My hair drips onto my chest and arms, but it feels sort of good against the humidity of the bathroom.

When I go back to the bedroom, though, the air goes icy, and the water dripping off my hair down my back in rivulets sends chills through my body. Eric stands there, leaning on the bureau, waiting for me.

"Hello."

I raise an eyebrow at him, cross my arms and lean on the doorframe of the bathroom.

"You didn't eat." I notice his accent for the first time; I'm not exactly sure where it's from, but the syllables are soft in unexpected places.

"I'm a vegetarian."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think I need to kill my food to eat it." I say through my teeth.

"That makes two of us," he smiles. I cough out a laugh. It's dry, harsh.

"Yeah. The whole vampire thing might negate that statement."

"I don't kill to eat." He stands up straight. "Come here."

I square my shoulders, harden my stare. "No."

"Fine," he breathes, moving toward me, in that too-quick way so I can't track his movement. He's in front of me now, his eyes inches from mine. He's pale, which I noticed before. His eyes are rimmed slightly with red, like he's been reading for hours at a time, refusing to give in to pressing exhaustion.

"What's your name?"

"What is this? Interview with the human?" I snarl. "You've got my wallet."

"I've got what is very likely a fake id given to you by the police for your fake date with that murderer, yes." He grins in pleasure when he sees my eyes widen in surprise.

"Now. What's your real name?"

"What's yours?" I retort, angry he's figured out my assignment so quickly.

"Something close to Eric Northman," he says. "It's been translated a bit over the years."

"And how did you know I wasn't on a real date with that guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "Could it be that anger was practically radiating off you the entire time? Not that Gray noticed."

"And what did you want with him?" By this time, I'm close enough to kiss Eric, but that's the last thing on my mind. My hands are on my hips; I'm in interrogation mode.

"Tell me your name."

"Elaine Perry."

"Good," he smiles. "Now, tell me your real name.

_God, does this guy have a built in polygraph? _

"Elise Hayes," I say, grudgingly.

"Well, Elise. It's nice to meet you."

"Sorry," I reply. "I can't really say the same thing." I turn my back on him, go back to the bathroom to get a towel to try and dry off my hair.

"What are you doing?" he calls.

"Drying my hair. I'm soaking wet." I turn around and he's in the bathroom with me, blocking the doorway.

"I know," he says, his gaze lascivious. I don't give him any satisfaction by blushing; instead, I turn to stone, my gaze neutral.

"Look at me," he orders, in that same silk voice he used in the alley. His words are like a caress, warm, soft, but it's false, like the tears of a crocodile. I turn my gaze downwards, refusing to make eye contact. I move closer to him.

"Excuse me." He allows me past; I sit on the side of the bed, ignoring him, but I can't hold the silence for long.

"You can't do this!" I scream, standing up. I ball my fists so hard my nails make crescent-moon marks in my palms. "You can't keep me here like this! This is the twenty-first century! People don't get away with things like this!"

He turns around, amused at my outburst. "In this life," he says, "I come first. And your knowledge of what I am threatens my very existence. So be glad I'm keeping you instead of killing you." There's fire in his eyes, so the blue jumps out against his skin.

"You can't have me," I say, lifting my chin. "In fact, I'd rather you kill me."

The next thing I feel is a hand, soft, behind my head. There's breath on my neck, then the soft ghost of lips, too.

"Oh, really?" He asks, his words muffled in my wet hair. I feel his mouth again, then the off pressure of those teeth, sinking into my skin.


	3. Chapter 3

What I feel when his teeth break the thin layer of skin on my neck and he begins to take blood from me is an odd sort of submerging feeling, like I've been thrown in the ocean with a weight strapped to my ankle.

As I go down, down, further into the sinking abyss that has to be an effect of the bite itself, or his saliva, I try to fight back, try to claw my way back to the surface, back to control over my own body.

Because, I realize, I can't move. My synapses fire, order my arms to push away, to slide out from his deathly embrace, but the electricity is stopped, overpowered by his will to feed.

_Push harder,_ I tell myself, and strain against his control; I feel an odd, internal wrenching. The pleasurable, sleepy feeling is gone, and fire consumes me. My veins feel like they're turning themselves inside out, being shredded as the blood is pulled from my body.

I start to scream and the sounds are frightening to my own ears; gurgles and haggard shouts that could peel the paint from walls are expelled from my throat. Eric takes his teeth from my throat and throws me on the bed, where I can barely lift my head to see him wipe his mouth. His eyes are furious, and I expect the last thing he'll want is another drop of my blood, my essence, but he licks his fingers and mouth clean, then turns to me and leans in. His tongue, warmed by my own body, traces the skin where he bit me until he cleans the wound completely.

"Do you like this?" he asks, his voice carrying an undercurrent of fury.

"What?" I whisper back, my voice barely able to cross the distance from my mouth to his ear.

"This weakness. This is what death feels like. First you lose strength, then you feel yourself slowly slipping away. Do you want this?" He's looking in my eyes now, searching for something I don't have an answer to.

"But you didn't actually die," I say, forcing my voice to be stronger, though I feel the strain run through my entire body. "You slipped away, only to come back as something different. You cheated life itself, missed its greatest lesson."

"Do you want to learn it for me?" He asks, smiling to show off his teeth. They lengthen in front of my eyes; I think he expects me to gasp, to show fear, but I can't. I lift my fingers, though they're heavy as lead, up to his face. My hand reaches his cheek and it's smooth like marble, impervious. His jaw line is sharp, has a strength and masculinity to it that would be attractive had I not been his captive. There's light stubble on his chin, surrounding his mouth, accentuating a cupid's bow that's deep, like my own. His facial hair is blonde, his lashes too, and it softens that hunter's gaze. I close my own eyes for a moment, knowing the black of my own lashes hardens my features, makes them jump out in contrast. We couldn't be more dissimilar; though I am tall, Eric towers over me, even as I lay on the bed. Where I am dark, he is pale; I'm wild with rebellion while he gazes out through an icy exterior.

I continue to explore his face and reach that open mouth, the color a pale pink almost too delicate for a man, and then my clumsy fingers bump into the deadly teeth that fit so elegantly into his mouth. They're razor sharp and my finger slices easily. I feel the blood well up; his lips close over my digit and his eyes flutter shut. His hand takes mine, holds it at the wrist.

"You're just another predator," I say, and he opens his eyes. "I'm not afraid of you because you offer death or captivity. I know the options. And you say you won't hurt me, but since I'm lying here, barely able to move, I'd say you're also a liar."

His mouth releases my finger, damp with his saliva, and my arm drops to my side.

"It wouldn't have hurt if you hadn't fought me." His eyes flicker back to my finger.

"Don't you see?" I ask. "All I have is my will. You can't break me like a horse."

"You'll go insane, then. Just give in to me." There's no pleading in his voice, just fact; he thinks he should win, thinks my refusal is a fleeting mood.

"Why? Why should I get Stockholm Syndrome just because you feel bad about taking my life away?"

"I'm letting you live—" he begins, but I cut him off.

"In theory, yes. But now, I have no life. And nothing you do will change that." A cough catches in my throat and my chest rattles with the pressure.

"Why did you take me?" I stare at him, daring him to look away, to break contact.

"I told you—I couldn't have you telling people of vampires' existence. You jeopardize everything."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" He raised an eyebrow, but lets me continue.

"I went to Northwestern. I am a police officer. Even having seen what you are, I would have kept my mouth shut. I value my job, my life. By taking me, by letting me see what you are, by _reminding_ me of it, by giving me your name and asking for mine, you _took_ me. This isn't about trust, about your existence. This is because you're lonely, because you want someone to amuse you."

"Nice theory." Eric's voice is sarcastic, but low—dangerous, a warning. His hair, sort of long, almost shoulder length and a pale yellow, the sort you see more in children, falls out from behind his ear, landing on my cheek. It's soft; I expect him to move it, but he doesn't. It stays, like a miniature curtain, falling down far enough to overlap with my own dark hair. I collect my thoughts, though, try to concentrate on the small truths he'd shown me, and continue.

"That night that I saw you, saw you killing Gray, you said I was interesting. Why?"

"You're smart enough," Eric says, his eyes hard with a challenge. "Figure it out." He sits up, away from me. His teeth are still elongated, and I take it as a test—he's trying to see how long I'll stand up to him. He doesn't know me well enough to see that I won't back down.

"Well, for whatever reason, then," I say, my voice turning into a rasp, "I'm betting you're old. Jaded, bored with life. And you saw something that you hadn't seen before." My lips are dry. I can feel the skin starting to crack. I slide my tongue over it, but it doesn't help. I swallow saliva that isn't there; I'm desperately thirsty.

"And because you think you're God," I continue, "You decided to take what you wanted. You're just like the man I was trying to arrest."

"You done?" Eric asks, raising an eyebrow, almost too pale to be defined against the skin of his forehead.

I nod.

"My turn," he says, smiling. The expression scares me more than his teeth. He speaks easily enough around them, though. He brushes his hair back and I notice, for the first time that he's wearing a surprisingly casual white t-shirt and jeans. He could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model.

"I'm a captive audience," I croak. "Lay it on me."

"You're what, all of 28?" He asks, not letting me answer. "And you're all about control. Even your looks—that's how you get to other people, especially this man you were trying to catch. And you hate it, because it goes against the fact that you're smart, and educated, and proud of it. And you like the hunt, just as much as I do—more, even. You hated that man, and the feeling rolled off your body, but so did excitement. You _loved_ luring him in with your wiles, and you relished leading him into a trap. You're just like me, really."

Maybe it's because I feel so weak, so helpless and angry, but I begin to cry. Really cry. All my strength, my reserve, my iron will, gives out and the dam breaks. And I hate him for it; hate him for being witness to my weakness.

The tears keep falling, slow and hot out of the corners of my eyes. Then—there's a light sensation, first on the left, then right side of my face. I open my eyes, my vision blurring slightly, and see that he's _licking_ my tears, ingesting my pain. This only makes them come faster, and then they're rolling down my cheeks and off my chin. I've been picked up, pressed to a chest that's hard but supportive. His hands wind themselves through the hair that's fallen down my back and he rubs them up and down, trying to comfort. He sighs something into my hair, something barely caught by my frantic mind, something definitely _not_ in English, or Spanish, the only other language I speak. It's beautiful though; whatever he said sounds like a song. I know I should be pushing away, shouldn't be finding comfort in the man who is causing me this pain in the first place, but I don't have any strength left to fight. Every reserve is overdrawn, and I can't stop this.

After awhile, I'm not sure how long, I can barely keep my eyes open and my head pounds in time with my heart, sending dull pain all through my neck and shoulders. I can feel Eric's chest, still beneath my cheek, soaked through with my tears.

"I can't glamour you," Eric says, as I bring my hands up to my eyes. The tears have finally subsided.

"Glamour?" I ask, drawing out syllables in my exhaustion. Eric looks down at me like he's holding a child.

"Hypnotize, sort of. I can't influence your mind or your actions. I've never met anyone I couldn't control."

"You…took me away from everything I love because you couldn't control me?" I shake my head, unable to process this information correctly. I was captured, trapped because I was something new and different.

"You don't understand, Elise. I'm old. Over 1,000 years have passed, and I've witnessed it all. But you…you were different. New. I got excited."

"I'm a plaything?" I asked, bile rising in my throat. "I should be glad, though, that I don't have parents to clean out my apartment, Eric." I was falling asleep, but now my body was wide awake again, running on adrenaline.

"It was rash," he says, his tone unreadable. "But I can't change anything, and I don't think I would." I can't look at him, can't focus on anything. I'm breathing too fast, and everything around me begins to spin.

"You're not a _person_," I say between breaths. "Not a human, not a person, not anything worth saving!" I don't see it, but his eyes glaze over. His hands harden on my back and I'm being put down, laid on the bed again like a rag doll.

"You should get some rest," he says, and stares at me as he stands. I turn my head away, close my eyes. I can't bring myself to say anything; an intense ache filled my throat and I could barely breathe. I fall asleep, on top of the sheets, shortly thereafter.

***

Someone shakes me awake.

"You must have angered Eric last night," the maid—I never asked her name—says, looking at me with an odd sheen in her eyes. "He was stomping around the rest of last night."

"Uhn?" I say, in no shape to be having an intelligent conversation. She looks at me closer, looks at my neck. Her hand goes to her mouth. I touch the skin where Eric bit, my arms sluggish and clumsy, and feel the dried blood there, trailing down my neck.

"What did you say to him?" She asks, touching my arm. I'm not in the mood for any inquiries about last night, so I turn over, see the food she's brought, as well as a stack of books. It makes me feel like crying all over again.

"I just need to eat," I say, looking at her, then the door. She looks at me closely, again, for a moment, then nods before opening the door.

"Wait," I call, and the effort makes my head pound. She turns back to me and I ask her name.

"Mary," she tells me, gives me a sad smile, then leaves. I'm alone again, with thoughts and feelings I don't want to face. I roll back to my other side, ignoring the smell of the food. I close my eyes and sleep wraps its arms around me like a shroud. I give myself to it, trying to erase the events of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Sun shines warm on my eyes; it's that perfect, contrasting warmth to the crisp fall air that surrounds, hovers on the skin so everyone smells like the outdoors. I open my eyes and see above me bright yellows and reds, and their middle ground, orange. I breathe in and taste the _expectation_ in the air, the scent of the incoming cold, its smoky tendrils already wrapped around the outgoing heat of summer.

I sit up on my arms and see that I'm on a blanket of brown plaid. It's soft beneath me, faded from use and the sun. I lie back down, content to just _be,_ just exist in the peace of the day. But a shadow falls over my eyes and footfalls crunch the leaves in front of me. I lift my hand, fingers spread, to shade my eyes and see who has not-so-quietly crept up on me. But he's--the shoulders, broad, and hips, narrow, reveal his sex--cloaked by the glare of the sun in the sky, high behind him. He extends a hand down to me, to help me up, and for some reason, I'm not afraid, not even worried. I grasp his fingers, warm on mine, and am suddenly on my feet, staring at a chest; whoever this guy is, he's tall.

"Been looking for you," he says, his voice soft. It's familiar, but like a sought-after song title on the tip of my tongue, the reason for its familiarity slips further away as I chase after it. But then hands lift my chin and before I have time to see anything, lips close over mine. The touch is gentle; his mouth catches my top lip and squeezes playfully before is tongue asks permission, which I grant readily.

I part my lips and taste the unmistakable spicy heat of cinnamon. He parries well, moving in and out and around the curves of my mouth, He releases me with a long, chaste kiss and pulls me into his arms, close so I smell his deodorant and natural scent. I breathe deep, taking him into my lungs, trying to keep him there as a memory in my cells.

"Who are you?" I ask, my words muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt.

"There's no time," he replies, his voice vague. I open my mouth to ask him what he's talking about, but before a syllable can cross the threshold from my mouth to that crisp air, his arms are gone and so is he. I stand, alone, in a forest of trees with bare branches.

I turn around, try to find my bearings, but I'm grabbed from behind, my arms pinned to my chest. I kick my legs up, scream to be let go, but my words float away, a visible mist in the air.

"Found you," A voice says from above. I'm spun around, pivoted so my gaze is anchored to the barren forest floor, and--

I gasp, awaking from a dream that leaves me soaked against my dress and the sheets underneath.

"Fuck," I say, and it comes out like the sound of a knife scratched across burnt toast. I realize I'm sitting up, my hands in front of me as if to counter an attack. I bring them to my damp forehead and push my sweat-slicked bangs back. My body aches; it's all I can do to get out of bed. and when I do, dizziness disrupts my stability. I lean against the post of the bed until I feel like I might make it to the bathroom. Once there, I turn the shower on and collapse into its warmth, though I don't stay long. Leaving my dress on the floor, I walk slowly into the bedroom and open a drawer of the bureau; clothes have been folded neatly into its depths; I pick out plain underwear and sweatpants, along with a tank top. I dress quickly, sliding the clothes over my still-wet and aching body. When I look back at the nightstand by the bed, I see that I must have slept through Mary's second visit. The breakfast is gone, replaced with dinner, along with a stack of books and an alarm clock.

It's 3:00 pm.

I sit, feeling weak, still unable to make myself eat, and thumb through the books. _The Road, A Call to Arms, A Moveable Feast_, _The Great Gatsby_; my favorite classics are all there.

I pick up _Gatsby_ and begin to read, but the flippant attitudes of the rich in the novel remind me too much of my current situation. I put the book down as heat travels through my body, waking my mind up.

I _will not_ sit and play captive. I will end this situation one way or another, and if my hand is forced, so be it. With strength I don't possess, I get up one more time. I find what I need in the bathroom, though I have to disassemble it to get to what I really want. It takes me a few tries, and a few cut fingers, but I return triumphantly from the bathroom and sit on the floor, my back in a corner, content to count the minutes until Eric arrives.

***

The heavy door swings open at 4:56. Eric enters, smelling of a warm, embracing cologne, and asks me why I'm sitting on the floor.

"It's comfortable," I smile, the words rolling out easily. He squints at me, tries to assess this odd front I'm presenting, and leans against the bedpost.

"Starting to go mad, huh?" He asks, with a gleam in his eyes. He crosses his arms and I notice he's dressed up today, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and black slacks.

"No, silly," I say, silently giddy over the incredulous expression that flickers across his perfect features.

"I see the clothes fit," he changes the subject. I nod. "But why are you wearing sweatpants, Elise? It's still day."

"Am I going somewhere special?" I deadpan, earning a chuckle.

"Listen," I begin. "I'm going to give you a second chance to let me go."

Disbelief crosses his face, as does a smile. "Oh, you are?"

"Yup."

"Well," he drawls, those foreign fricatives playing with familiar words, "I'm going to regretfully decline your offer." His smile is cruel in its control, in its amusement. He sees me as a child, and though I am, comparatively, he doesn't know the stakes of the game I've drawn.

"If you have a downfall," I say, "it's your experience. You've seen everything there is to see, know every permutation of actions ever taken, right?" His eyes narrow again. He wants to know where I'm going with this.

"I told you," I slip my hand behind me, retrieve a single blade from the razor I took apart earlier. I hold it to my wrist for a moment, watch his eyes go wide before drawing it deliberately, vertically up my arm.

He tenses. The hollow of his neck jumps out, highlights the veins there. His lips part, those sensuous lips, and I watch his teeth elongate. He takes a step forward, engrossed by the life dripping across my skin.

"You can't have me." My voice is deadly, though nowhere near his level of intimidation. "If you drink from me now, you're no better than Gray, and you'll know that forever." I see the acknowledgement in his eyes, the quick realization of the truth in my words.

"Why are you--" He starts, his eyes glued to the ceiling, away from my blood. The color of his irises have darkened, become the sky before a deadly storm. He's standing stock still and not even his chest moves. I'd noticed he didn't seem to _need_ to breathe, but did for the sense of smell, I guess.

"Because I will not live on your terms. You let me go or I die. Simple."

"I told you--you know too much! If I let you go, who knows what will happen to you?" His fingers dig into the wood, leaving similar marks to those on my palm.

"What about Mary?" I ask, my voice filled with victory.

"The maid?" He's still not looking at me, but he scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair so it falls over his face, shields his gaze. Inside, I laugh. He can't hide from this. I doubt he can even take a step back.

"I know for a fact she leaves this house--she slipped and told me herself when she asked if I wanted any books. " I nod towards the stack, and he whips around, looking for the offensive objects.

"Idiot." He mutters, shaking his head, turning back toward me.

"So you could let me go," I accuse. "You just choose not to." My wrist begins to ache; the blood pours steadily, pooling on the floor like spilled wine. Though my hand is weak, I drag the razor across the other arm. The fresh cut spills blood's scent into the air. I'm repeatedly poking a slumbering bear.

"Look at it," I dare him. "Look at me, you coward." He does, his jaw clenched so tightly I wonder how he doesn't cut himself. "This," I say, "is what you've done. You're responsible for my death, for an 'innocent,' as you called me." I reach up for him; he kneels quickly, throwing off my reach. My hand smears across his shirt, leaving tracks of blood like a live-action watercolor. I correct my aim and grab his hands with my own He grasps my shoulders so hard his fingers bite the skin, leaving instant bruises.

"My blood," I tell him, "is on your hands." The red is stark on his pale skin. He pulls my wrist to his lips; the blood hits the floor audibly now. But he doesn't drink from me, doesn't bite. Instead, his kisses the wound, coating his lips with red liquid. Then he pulls me into him, wraps his long arms around me and touches my cheek carefully. The sensation is odd, something like being stroked by a tiger.

"I wanted you," he says. "I wanted you more than anything I have in a long time." Then his mouth and my blood are all over my own lips. It feels like rain on a summer day, cool and light, crackling with electricity. Both his hands are in my hair now, wetting the strands so they stick together, stained red. His mouth moves easily with mine and recalls the dream; he was my mysterious lover--and attacker.

He holds me like that, and I imagine being enveloped by a statue. All the while, my breathing shortens and I feel my heart pound and flutter. Warm sticky-wet coats my arms and soaks through mine and Eric's clothes. The familiar feeling, being carried away by a current, washes over me slowly and I realize my mind is beginning to haze. Eric's lips are still on mine, but then he shifts, drags his cheek past mine so it feels like light sandpaper moving down toward my neck.

That pinch, familiar and sharp, resonates through my body, which jerks out of my control. I try to lift my hands, but they're too heavy. Before I lose myself completely, I slur a question.

"What are you doing?"

He answers, but I'm already drifting away, alight with pleasure that washes through every cell I have. I don't fight it this time because it's my choice, my way out. But as I fade in and out of a solar system of light and color, I hear the beat of a failing heart; mine, I realize. My sense of touch begins to fade. I can't feel Eric's still chest, or his mouth eagerly taking my life into his body.

Before losing myself entirely, his words make their way through my failing stimuli receptors:

"I'm letting you go."

But it doesn't matter, really. I'm, content, somehow. I breathe out one last time, let the air go with a wistful sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

The sigh that comes out of me is halting, choppy; the air catches in my throat and what feels like wind against my neck pulls me backward. I lean into it, expecting darkness, a final, abrupt ending to unfurl within me. I'd never believed in God.

But my consciousness doesn't fail, doesn't pull back into the mysterious abyss that allows only one-way travel. Instead, I surface from sedation into a sort of crystal lucidity that's calm, quiet. My mind should be sluggish, and if not, frenzied, but I find myself collected, unusually tranquil. Without knowing how, really, I open my eyes and a jolt runs through what can't actually be my body.

Because, two feet from me, I see myself. Or, what must be my body. I'm lying down, but not entirely on the floor, because Eric is crouched over me, supporting my back and head, leaning with his other arm at an awkward angle. His back blocks most of my view, but I can see that my eyes are open, glazed, staring sightless at the ceiling. My hair is off my face; the lengths that reach the ground dip into the blood pooled there like a quill in ink. Said liquid is smeared over my pale face, which has a blue tinge to it, especially around my eyes. My hands are at my sides, fingers curled back toward the palms, the nails tinged purple. It's grotesque, and though I should feel like fainting or vomiting, the sensations don't come.

I'm not sure if I can move, but I try to take a step and when the floor stays solid beneath me, I move closer, crouch near Eric's shoulder to get a better look. He doesn't see me, or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge my presence. He raises his free hand to his mouth; I see his fatal teeth as his lips part to accommodate the limb. I hear a snap, and watch his wrist as he guides it to my mouth. Dark red pools at the two clean, round holes that blemish his otherwise unmarred skin; the blood flows down his arm, the mirror image of my own, but the two liquids are, in and of themselves, completely different. My blood supports his life, his will change mine. He lays me down, letting me settle into the floor where the pressure of my weight causes the fast-drying blood to _wiggle_ in a sort of solid, shiny way. And yet, I still have no urge to empty the contents of my stomach.

I scramble over a few feet to see what he's doing. I notice that I don't feel the grain of the wood underneath me; I don't feel anything at all, not even when I lift a hand to my own cheek and scratch lightly. But I forget this when I see that, with his free hand, Eric is opening my closed mouth. His fingers are firm and not entirely gentle; they scrape against my teeth in an effort to pry them open, but—I stop in mid thought. _I can feel his touch._

He brings his bleeding wrist to my mouth and holds it over my lips, letting the fluid drip past my teeth. I feel the wetness on my face as some of the blood misses its mark and dribbles down my chin slowly. But most of it makes its way past my teeth, staining them red before flowing past to collect at the back of my throat. There's pressure on my throat; his fingers are there, massaging and my body reacts to the pressure by swallowing.

And then…

The world tilts on its axis and I'm pushed violently down, hurtling head over heels so air I didn't know I was breathing is pushed out of my lungs. Spots line up in front of my eyes, neon colors I probably would have enjoyed, had I been on acid. The stop is sudden. I hear a crack and wonder if my back is broken.

My sense of touch comes back and I'm shocked at polarity of the plain and pleasure that thrills my skin. My wrists burn, a feeling similar to when I fought Eric's bite, but internally, I feel waves of what feels like warm hands moving all over me, slow and deep like a massage and then a pressure, a build that starts in my throat and spreads through my blood. My skin, my muscles pulsate with power.

"Please," Eric whispers above me, and my eyes open and meet his at his words. My hands are beyond my control when they move from my sides to his wrist. They wrap around his arms and pull it closer; I'm biting, breaking through his skin with teeth that aren't fit for the job, but I can't stop myself. I'm a slave to this, this absolute _need_ for his blood. It quenches a fire, his sustenance, and I'm caught alight and desperate to put it out.

"It's ok," he says, bending close to me and extending his legs so he's leaning on his side, facing me. It's a position of comfort, of ease, as if we're a couple lounging in bed.

I trust his words and concentrate on getting _moremoremore_ because that's all that matters, taking him into me faster and stronger until I overflow with his life. He's smiling, and the expression paints his face in a clean, innocent light that I've not seen before. It's suiting on him, extends the corners of his eyes and mouth sweetly and I can't imagine that smug, domineering expression every having twisted his features. I blink, though, once, twice, because his face is blurring. The action does nothing and my eyes get heavy again; each swallow I take now steals energy, scoops it out like seeds from a pumpkin.

He removes his hand from my mouth and I cry out for it, like the whining of an infant, but I don't think I could swallow anything more, really. There's a rushing in my ears, like falling water, and then only silence.

***

There are arms wrapped around me, of that I'm sure. They cross over my chest and are connected to a body that I lie against. When I begin to move, the arms tighten around me, keeping me still.

"Don't move just yet." Eric.

"What happ—" I say, but he just makes a low shhh… sound.

"We're in the ground," he says calmly, and I realize he's right. We're surrounded by a cushioned wall, that of a coffin. I slam my hands against the side, feeling the lack of space, but Eric just holds me closer again.

"Relax." His tone reflects his advice, and I'm soothed for a moment before I notice that his touch, his hands on me, feels amplified, as if I could differentiate every whirl of his fingerprints on my skin. I open and close my eyes, seeing the ivory white of the fabric-laid coffin, something I shouldn't be able to do in the dark.

"I need to get out," I gasp, the space, or lack thereof, closing in on me. I'm a rabid animal backed into a wall, gasping for air I don't need.

"Alright," he says. When I lift the top, close your eyes and mouth and wrap yourself around me." His fingers run up and down my arm; like a lake, the sensations ripple out through my body. When he moves his hand, a phantom is still there, running a marathon over my skin.

I nod, distracted, to show him I understand. He reaches up over our heads and pushes; I head wood grind against dirt, and just in time I close my eyes and turn my head away, into his chest. A fountain of dirt falls down on us, but it's silky over my skin, the lips of a lover running over my body.

Eric stands, taking me with him as I wrap my legs around his waist. He digs through the dirt, pushes into the night air. The first thing I see is the velvet sky, its dark horizon punctuated by the twinkling silver of stars.

"Wow," I say, agape at the beauty that surrounds me.

"Elise," Eric says, and I turn my head back to him, astonished.

"This is amazing," I say, loosening my death grip on his waist. He allows me to step down, but keeps me close. His fingers move to my hair, which he shakes, sending streams of dirt flying. The sensation of his nails scratching against my scalp makes me sigh with pleasure; I try to focus, but I'm over stimulated; the air on my skin, his hands on me, the smells of the grass and his body and how everything around me seems to be in constant motion so I can't keep up.

"You changed me." I look at his face. It reflects the moonlight, shines like a beacon in the dark. I touch his face and it's no longer impervious, but soft, welcoming, like his arms.

"Yes," he says, moving slightly so one of my fingers slides into his mouth.

"Why?" I ask, shuddering at the sensations that flow through me. It's like being on ecstasy; my whole body is attuned to _feel,_ to be touched.

"I couldn't let you die," He says, moving to kiss my lips, which I respond to immediately. He doesn't stay there, though, instead moving down my chin and jaw to focus on my neck, which he massages in slow, aching circles. His tongue licks the skin there, and when he speaks, his air dances across the damp skin, sending chills down my spine.

"And I refused to kill you."

"So I could leave you at any time?" I ask, my rebellion coming back full force.

"I won't hold you to me," his voice is soft, but there's a heavy undercurrent that weighs the words down.

"I'm not going," I say, and I feel his smile against my skin. He resumes his exploration and I angle my neck to give him better access. When he hits a particularly sensitive spot, I feel something in my mouth shift; I gasp, and he chuckles into my hair before pushing it back and placing one last kiss there.

I touch my mouth, feel the alien teeth there and make wordless noises until Eric moves my hand and presses his lips back to mine. I feel the weight of his elongated teeth against my lips as he rakes them across before licking away the blood that bubbles to the surface.

"You're perfect," he says, smiling in a smug way that somehow comes off charming. "But you need to feed." I wince at the thought, but he guides me to his own neck.

"From me first," he says, and I look back up at him once before letting instincts I didn't know I had take over. My tongue explores the surface of his neck, tastes the sweet skin there before I bite down and release, latching my mouth to the wound, letting the blood run down my throat. He gasps, but I hear the pleasure in his exclamation. It's not long before I'm sated; his heady blood satisfies like a three course meal, though it tastes only of dessert. I stop pulling, lick the skin, draw back and watch in wonder as the holes from my teeth close quickly, leaving no trace of me behind.

"Let's get out of here," Eric says, reaching for my hand. I take it, then take a step forward so we stand at equal ground. We walk together, entwined, back to the house.

"So stubborn," He laughs, and I feel joy, his or mine, I'm not sure, but it's there just the same. The air carries his peals of laughter away, sharing them with everything around us.

***

It had been two months since Elise had disappeared on the Gray case. My captain told me it wasn't my fault; I couldn't have stopped my partner going missing.

"We didn't know Gray had a partner," he'd said, his eyes on my face, watching carefully. Watching for what? Evidence that I was going crazy? That I wasn't sleeping, that all I could think about was the wounded look on my partner's face before she left the bathroom, left forever?

I went over the tapes daily, listening attentively to the second voice on the wire, the one that told Elise she was going to forget everything.

The voice was low, deep and softly accented. His last words to her always left splotches of angry heat on my face.

_You're coming with me._

I sighed, dug my palms into my eyes, then drew my fingers back through my hair before standing up, giving up for the night. I shut off my desk light and grabbed my coat, said goodbye to the Sanders, the cop at the front desk, and made my way out into the dark streets of the city.

I rubbed my hands together, blew between them and saw my breath in the chilly winter air. I started the walk home, when a voice called out behind me.

"John!" I recognized the voice immediately. I turned too quickly, slid on ice and almost lost my balance, but then she was in front of me, had a hold of my elbow to steady me.

"How—" I began, but the look in her eyes stopped me. She was beautiful, even more so than she'd ever been, but she was also incredibly pale.

"I'm alright, John," She said, smiling at me. "Don't worry about me anymore. It wasn't your fault."

I opened my mouth to ask her so many questions, but something else caught my attention; behind her, a few yards away, was a tall, blonde man. He looked at me, smiled and nodded a hello.

"Goodbye, John." Elise put a hand to my cheek; it was as cold as the air around me.

"Good—" I started, but she was gone, as was the man. I stood alone in the street, talking to myself. After a moment, I squared my shoulders and turned around.

"I've got to get some sleep." I muttered into the empty air. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and went home.


End file.
